


prelude in c sharp minor, op. 3, no. 2

by playedwright



Series: lovers at an exhibition [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, EVENTUALLY THEY WILL TALK ABOUT IT, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Making Out, Musicians, bad ideas and choices probably, fwb... esque... they r getting there, like... so much horny kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25523626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playedwright/pseuds/playedwright
Summary: Eddie puts his hand on Richie’s thigh. His fingers press into the muscle there lightly.“What are you doing?” Richie asks.“I don’t know,” Eddie says honestly. He squints, looks contemplative for a moment, then must reach a decision in his head because it’s only another moment before he’s surging forward and kissing Richie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: lovers at an exhibition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849177
Comments: 14
Kudos: 230





	prelude in c sharp minor, op. 3, no. 2

**Author's Note:**

> continuing in the smau universe written by me and [scams](https://twitter.com/chernobrough) called [lover's at an exhibition](https://twitter.com/LoversAE_AU), an au where losers and co. play in the derry philharmonic orchestra. this prose bit occurs during movement 2 following update 142
> 
> :)

Richie doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Richie has no fucking _clue what he’s doing._

He must be insane. Or just fucking stupid. Perhaps it’s some kind of combination of both. He’s a sadist. Or is it a masochist? Does it matter in the end? Not really, because all that matters is that he gets a text that reads _come over_ and he’s on his feet and out the door without a second thought.

Some part of him must come to his senses when he hears his car door slam behind him, because he blinks and realizes suddenly that he’s behind the wheel of his car with his keys in the ignition, and he can’t really remember walking out of his apartment or even locking up. His phone vibrates in his pocket, so he pulls it out. Apparently he responded to Eddie’s text.

_Why,_ he’d said again.

_Because I want you to,_ comes Eddie’s response.

He turns the key in the ignition. His car starts with a loud grumble; old piece of crap. He shifts the gear into reverse and pulls out of his parking spot.

Eddie’s apartment is roughly seven minutes away from Richie’s. He counts along to the beat of the song playing on the radio, some song he vaguely recognizes and thinks is Adele but would be hard-pressed to name on his own. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He feels offbeat. He’s not sure what emotion he can feel pressing heavy against his chest.

The song ends and switches, something else he vaguely recognizes. But Richie parks his car in front of Eddie’s place before he can figure out what it is. He turns his car off and stares, for a little while, at Eddie’s front door. Wonders again what the fuck he’s doing.

He pulls out his phone again and looks at Eddie’s text. _Come over._ Heat swoops in his gut. Richie thinks about Eddie putting his hands on his body again. Thinks about Eddie kissing him again, with that wicked and clever tongue. He can’t even begin to guess what might be going through Eddie’s head right now.

It’s got to be a booty call. It _has_ to be. Richie’s not sure he can handle it being anything else. Eddie had said _talk,_ but it’s clear that’s not what he meant.

Right?

Richie gets out of his car. He supposes there’s only one way to find out.

He doesn’t hesitate, when he makes it to Eddie’s door. He comes to a stop and raises his fist and knocks, two quick raps, before shoving his hands in his pockets uncertainly. He feels a little bit bare, coming here without his tuba. He’s only been here for practice. This is unprecedented.

The door swings open.

Eddie looks unbelievably soft to the touch, standing at the threshold of his house. He’s changed out of what he wore to rehearsal, trading the neat polo for a worn t-shirt and the slacks for sweatpants that ride low on his hips. Richie drinks in the sight of him almost self-consciously, before he catches himself and snaps his gaze back up to Eddie’s face.

“Hey,” Eddie says. His voice is even, meaning Richie still can’t get a read on him.

“Hey, yourself,” Richie replies. Eddie steps to the side, and Richie comes inside without much fanfare. The door shuts soundly behind him. Eddie locks the deadbolt.

For a second, they stand there, staring at one another and wondering what the first move will be. Richie watches silently as Eddie sizes him up, gaze raking down Richie’s body then back up again before his eyes finally settle on Richie’s face.

“You can sit down on the couch, if you want,” Eddie says finally. He takes a step towards his kitchen. “Can I get you a drink?”

“This early in the afternoon?” Richie manages to say. Resorting to humor. He’s not sure if it’s a defense mechanism or a habit at this point. “Why, Juilliard, how positively scandalous of you to suggest.”

The nickname stops both of them in their tracks. Heat rushes through Richie’s veins. Eddie’s face turns a faint pink, blush dusting his cheekbones.

“Sorry,” Richie murmurs.

Eddie looks at him again. “Don’t be.”

Richie swallows thickly. Lets himself be looked at. Wonders what Eddie allows himself to see. He points over his shoulder towards Eddie’s couch. “Guess I’ll go sit down.”

“I’ll grab a glass of water and be right out,” Eddie says slowly. He waits until Richie starts backing up towards the couch to turn towards the kitchen.

Richie sits down when he can’t see Eddie anymore. It’s not his first time here, so there’s not much that's new for him to look at. He drags his gaze over the living room anyway. Eddie’s violin is on the chair by the window. His turntable is open but there’s no vinyl on top of it, all of them still neatly organized in their baskets. For a moment, Richie stares at them and allows himself to fantasize about Eddie putting something on before easing Richie down to the floor and taking him apart. He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, gaze snapping away when he hears Eddie’s footsteps coming back.

Eddie hands him a glass of water. Their fingers brush. Richie can’t tell if he’s imagining the charged look in Eddie’s eyes or if it’s really there.

“Thanks,” he says, and he takes a small sip. Eddie sits down next to him.

“Thanks for coming over,” Eddie responds. He takes a drink from his own glass before setting it down on a coaster on the coffee table. Richie takes another drink before following suit and putting his on the coaster next to Eddie’s.

He shrugs as he sits back, unsure of whether or not he should look at Eddie now. “You said you wanted to talk, so.”

Eddie hums. It’s a low noise. Richie’s gaze snaps back to Eddie. “I did say that,” Eddie admits. There’s a furrow in his brow. He’s trying to solve a problem without knowing the formula. Richie wants to press his thumb to the center of it and smooth it out. He clasps his hands together instead.

Eddie puts his hand on Richie’s thigh. His fingers press into the muscle there lightly.

“What are you doing?” Richie asks.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says honestly. He squints, looks contemplative for a moment, then must reach a decision in his head because it’s only another moment before he’s surging forward and kissing Richie.

Richie opens up for him right away, and Eddie starts the kiss off dirty by sucking Richie’s tongue between his teeth. With his free hand, he cradles the back of Richie’s head and pulls him closer, slotting their mouths together better. Richie places his own hand on Eddie’s jaw, steadying, and lets out a startled gasp when Eddie gently nibbles his bottom lip.

It’s a bad idea, and Richie knows this, but what he knows in his brain is different from what his body knows. His body knows that if he slides his tongue against Eddie’s slowly that it will draw a shiver out of Eddie. His body knows that Eddie is most responsive when Richie’s hands are on him. His body knows how to kiss and knows how to make it good, knows how to take what he’s given and match it, then switch and slow the pace in a way that consistently drives his partners crazy.

Richie gets his hands on Eddie’s hips, and he’s not certain if it’s him who facilitates it or if it’s Eddie who shifts up and slides himself onto Richie’s lap, but regardless it ends with Eddie’s knees bracketing Richie’s hips and pressing him further into the couch. The angle changes again, with Eddie above him now, and Eddie puts both hands on Richie’s face to set his own pace as he licks into Richie’s mouth with renewed vigor. Richie keeps his hands on Eddie’s hips. His thumb digs into the skin above the waistline of Eddie’s sweatpants and it draws a delicious gasp from Eddie’s mouth that Richie swallows up eagerly.

It’s like fucking music, and it’s a corny comparison, but Richie feels so dick-sick he doesn’t even care. He can’t stop replaying the sound of Eddie’s gasps and breathless pants over and over in his mind, so he won’t. It drowns out the warning that this might not be a good idea, anyway.

Eddie pulls back without warning, drawing startled noises from the both of them, and there’s a frantic energy in his gaze when his eyes start searching Richie’s face. He brushes the pad of his index finger along Richie’s cheekbone. It feels alarmingly intimate, a stark contrast to the frantic way they’d been kissing before. Richie blinks.

“What the fuck are we doing,” he manages to say. Eddie’s eyes trace his features. The thumb of his left hand presses against Richie’s bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says again. He licks his lips; Richie’s gaze drops to track the movement, mesmerized by it. By the pink of Eddie’s lips, shiny with spit, swollen from kissing Richie ferociously. “But. You’re a good kisser.”

Richie blinks again. He feels disoriented by it. “Uh. Thanks? I learned in college.”

Eddie’s face contorts, like he can’t decide whether or not he’s going to laugh or scowl. Richie resists the urge to beam up at him goofily, though the instinct nearly overpowers him. Eventually Eddie finds his wits and says, “Is that what they gave you from A&M? Your BA in sucking face?”

“Tongue-fucking, actually,” Richie says, and now he can’t hide his grin. Eddie bites down on his lip to keep from smiling. “Spent junior year playing intramural tonsil hockey, too.”

That’s what gets him to cave, finally, throwing his head back and laughing a full-bodied laugh that shakes Richie, still pinned underneath him. Richie grins. “My god, you’re the worst,” Eddie says around his laughter. Richie leans forward and licks a clean stripe up Eddie’s neck. He traces his tongue clear up to the sharp cut of Eddie’s jaw and tugs the skin there between his teeth. Eddie’s laughter dies off with another choked sound.

“The worst?” Richie asks, rising to the challenge.

“Somewhat,” Eddie grits out. He slides a hand back into Richie’s hair and twines his fingers into the curls.

Richie hums. Eddie tilts his head down enough that Richie can shift and press a faint kiss to the side of his mouth, a barely-there pressure meant to tease. It draws a shudder out of Eddie that Richie had been hoping for. Eddie presses his chest flush against Richie’s and, in what could constitute as one of the hottest moments of Richie’s sex life, tugs Richie’s head back by pulling on his hair and swallowing Richie’s gasp with a bruising kiss.

He’s relentless in the way he kisses Richie, deliberate in the way he moves his mouth and tongue like he knows exactly how to take Richie apart. And in all honesty, maybe he does; Richie’s always been a quick study when it comes to this. Easy to please. Pliant under hands that seem to know what they’re doing. But Eddie’s easy to learn, too. He likes Richie’s roaming hands. He likes his fingers in Richie’s hair. And he likes it when Richie runs his mouth, which is perhaps the most surprising thing of all.

“You’re so good at this,” Eddie murmurs, right before Richie can attempt to lick behind his teeth.

“You’ve already said that,” Richie reminds him, and Eddie tightens his trip on Richie’s hair and grins against his mouth when Richie grunts.

“And I mean it.”

Richie enunciates his next sentence with a deliberate roll of his tongue against Eddie’s. He’s grinning when Eddie shivers and breaks the kiss again. “Thanks, I practice.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” Eddie murmurs. His next kiss is considerably softer than the rest, mouth pressing against Richie’s like he’s something that deserves to be kissed gently, too. “Every word out of your mouth is tailor-made to annoy me. It’s incredible.”

“I think you’ve found a pretty effective way to shut me up, you know,” Richie points out. He rocks his hips up against Eddie’s, drawing a breathy moan out of both of them. Eddie’s chest is heaving when he presses his forehead against Richie’s.

“No,” he says, after a beat too long. “I mean. Yeah. I have. But.”

Richie runs his hands up Eddie’s side slowly. The fabric of his worn, soft shirt rides up with Richie’s fingers. Not for the first time, Richie wonders what Eddie looks like outside of the clothes. Outside of the polos and slacks, or the neatly pressed jackets and ties, or the comfortable and holey t-shirts he apparently wears when he’s home and alone. Richie’s voice is a little bit thick as he says, “Well. Spit it out, Juilliard.”

“I like hearing you,” Eddie admits. He pulls back and catches Richie’s gaze, clearly pleased by the way he’s surprised Richie. His mouth twists into a smirk; Richie’s mesmerized by it. Then, teasingly, Eddie adds, “ _Tex._ ”

Richie surges up on instinct, kissing Eddie again so harshly their teeth clack until Eddie pulls back and fixes it. Sets a rhythm, sets a beat for them to follow. He leads, Richie follows. Richie takes, Eddie gives. He licks into Richie’s mouth again with practiced ease, as if they’ve done this a thousand times. And maybe they have, by now. Or if they haven’t reached that one-thousandth kiss yet, maybe they will. The way Eddie kisses Richie tells him that neither of them believe it will be the last. Eddie sucks on Richie’s bottom lip and soothes it with the tip of his tongue. Richie’s moan reverberates between their mouths.

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps out. Richie swallows the sound of it and catches Eddie’s lip between his teeth. Richie groans again when Eddie makes another mewling noise and rocks his hips forward.

Eddie seems determined to draw out as many noises from Richie as possible, if the way he licks behind Richie’s teeth and drags his fingernails against Richie’s scalp at the same time is any indication. He seems spurred on by every desperate groan that falls from Richie’s mouth, swallowing most of them and echoing others with his own stuttered moans.

“Why’s this so good,” Eddie murmurs. When his head drops back, Richie leans forward and sucks a spot on Eddie’s neck. He grins, pulling the skin between his teeth, when Eddie chokes again. “Holy _shit,_ Richie—”

“It’s supposed to feel good, dumbass,” Richie says. He runs his tongue over the bite mark and then trails a little higher, enjoying the way Eddie shivers and tightens his grip in Richie’s hair.

“No, why are _you_ so good,” Eddie yelps, and when Richie starts to suck on another spot on his neck, he stops him before Richie gets too far into it and connects their lips together greedily.

It’s like he can’t get enough of just _kissing_ Richie, like he’d be content to just do this for hours, and it’s wild because Richie can _feel_ the steadily hardening press on Eddie’s dick against his stomach. His tongue rolls with Richie’s, matching the pace or speeding it up or slowing it down. He seems to know exactly the right moment to do the opposite of what Richie anticipates or wants, putting Richie on edge.

Eddie tilts his head back again and kisses a spot right below Richie’s ear. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, smacking a hand flat against the couch cushion and digging his fingers into the fabric. Eddie grins.

“Guess I’m not so bad, either,” he says smugly.

“Nngh,” Richie groans. Eddie shifts up and tugs Richie’s earlobe between his teeth. “Fucking. _Christ._ You fishing for a compliment now?”

“So what if I am?” Eddie challenges.

And it’s a bit much, if Richie’s being honest, so he reaches up and cups his hand around the back of Eddie’s head so he can pull him down into another kiss. It’s easier, Richie thinks, to make sure he doesn’t say the wrong thing. It’s easier to do this than risk fucking everything up.

The thought barely crosses his mind when it happens. Eddie rises up and bears down, grinding against Richie, and Richie thinks, _oh, god, we’re gonna fuck again,_ and he surges up to change the angle and better suck Eddie’s tongue into his mouth when someone’s phone rings, and the tentative liminal space they’ve created here shatters in an instant.

Eddie pulls back sharply; their mouths make a wet sound as the kiss breaks, and Richie lets out an involuntary whimper. It takes a second for his gaze to refocus. Both he and Eddie stare at each other, confused, before Richie finally clears his throat and says, “I think that’s yours.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees faintly. One of his hands lets go of Richie’s curls and drops uncertainly into his lap. Richie blinks. Eddie’s phone continues to ring. It takes another beat before Eddie realizes and lurches backwards, stumbling off of Richie’s lap and hissing, “Oh, shit!”

Eddie’s phone is on the chair with his violin, and he stumbles over there and manages to grab it and answer the call on the last ring. His voice is breathless on the “Hello?” and Richie has a surreal moment where he’s not sure whether or not Eddie’s out of breath from kissing or from rushing to answer the call.

“Yes, thank you so much for getting back to me,” Eddie says. His spine straightens, his voice becomes professional. It’s amazing how quickly he makes the shift to concertmaster, and Richie feels like ice water has been dumped down his back. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you again ever since we met last month.”

Richie watches, numb and still embarrassingly hard, as Eddie begins to pace back and forth, focused almost entirely on his phone call. Richie’s not sure who Eddie’s talking to, but it’s clear that it’s an important call and that Richie has no business being here, so he stands when Eddie turns his back to him and wonders if he can make it out the door without getting caught. He doesn’t want to get in the way, and he’s got to hurry home so he can sit and wallow and question every choice he’s ever made that has landed him in yet another situation he has _no fucking business_ being in.

Eddie turns back once Richie stands, and he’s close enough that his hand reaches out and catches Richie by the wrist. It shouldn’t electrify Richie as much as it does, a barely-there grip, but Richie freezes in place.

_Don’t go,_ Eddie mouths. His eyes are almost pleading.

But Richie’s played this game so many times he has the script memorized, and today he thinks he might be able to play the role for himself, so he shakes his head and murmurs, “See you around, Eds,” and gently pulls his wrist free of Eddie’s hand so he can make his way towards the door.

Eddie’s drawn back into his phone call before he gets a chance to say anything else to Richie, so Richie makes it out the front door and down the sidewalk relatively quickly. His hands are shaking as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks his car. His whole body feels tense, nerve-endings shot. His mouth is swollen. He’s sure his neck is marked up. He sits down heavily in the driver’s seat and slams his car door shut.

For a second, he sits with his hands on the steering wheel and stares absentmindedly out the windshield. He’s not certain what he’s doing. The thought makes him laugh; because that part is obvious, isn’t it? He didn’t know what he was doing when he first got in his car. He didn’t know what he was doing when Eddie leaned over and kissed him again like it was the only thing he could think of doing. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing now, sitting outside of Eddie’s house in his car with the key barely even in the ignition, feeling like a kicked puppy.

He’s proud of himself for making the choice to leave, though, before Eddie could ask him to. Richie had promised Bill this wouldn’t be like Long Beach. He thinks there’s little things he can do to make sure that it doesn’t _become_ Long Beach. The number one thing being Richie allowing himself a fucking limit or two.

Limit one being, obviously, not fucking falling in love with Eddie.

Richie turns the key and starts his car. He turns up the radio while he buckles his seatbelt, and he has half a second of peace before Roy Orbison’s voice is crooning through the speakers, _“Oh, you wished me well, you couldn’t tell, that I’d been crying over you.”_

“Motherfucker,” Richie groans, turning the volume back down and dropping his head back against the seat. He pushes his glasses up into his hair and scrubs tiredly at his eyes. He needs to drive, he needs to go home and get the fuck away from here, but for a moment he contemplates. For a moment, he thinks he’s earned a little self pity.

He turns the volume back up and hums along.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [here](https://twitter.com/SPACERICHlE) and my co-smau-author scams [here](https://twitter.com/chernobrough) if you want to come say hello!!


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